Viewport width =
March 3, 2017 | by  | in Poetry |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

dried flowers

 

I am walking in circles besides square windows:

you do not stay to hear my answers.

 

Space never knew the balance between apologies and presence.

Plates find their way to the dishwasher, tucked

 

beside each other down the bank.

The plateau of two conversations that meet their end,

 

get tangled, walk apart,

tingly fingers, clank of glass, wisp of hair.

 

The polite balance of wind and warmth,

walls of artwork that perform before my eyes.

 

Who are you,

the synth and hazy lavender that makes movement murky?

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. Turkish Red Lentil Soup
  2. Dragon Friends
  3. NZ Music Month
  4. Dear White People
  5. You’re Allowed to Watch Shit Films
  6. Flint Town: Season 1
  7. Sometimes It’s Too Cold to Go Outside
  8. Some Spicy AF Hot Takes
  9. Postgrad Informer
  10. Love Isn’t Real, Because You Aren’t Hard Enough
Website-Cover-Photo7

Editor's Pick

This Ain’t a Scene it’s a Goddamned Arm Wrestle

: Interior – Industrial Soviet Beerhall – Night It was late November and cold as hell when I stumbled into the Zhiguli Beer Hall. I was in Moscow, about to take the trans-Mongolian rail line to Beijing, and after finding someone in my hostel who could speak English, had decided